Lost and Found on the Underground
by Rule23
Summary: Gilderoy Lockheart is fed up of being trapped in St. Mungo's.


**Disclaimer**_**: **_Anything you recognise belongs to the incomparable J. K. Rowling. No money is being made from this.

**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Season Seven – Round Seven**

**Beater 2 for the Tutshill Tornados**

**Round Seven: Not My Department**

I know the teams are working super hard this season, and that's why the Kingsley Shacklebolt has extended an invitation for every player to take a tour of the Ministry. So, come along! Each department has a special treat set up in hopes of inspiring you!

**BEATER 2**: Department of Magical Transportation: Write about someone traveling.

**Additional Prompts:**

(character) Gilderoy Lockhart

(colour) Teal

**Thanks to the Tutshill Tornados for betaing!**

* * *

Lost and Found on the Underground

Words: 1,419

* * *

"There we are, dear." Healer Strout adjusts his dress robes. "You're all ready for the Victory Day party. Turquoise really is your colour."

"Teal." Gilderoy Lockhart —Order of Merlin (3rd Class), Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, five-time winner of _Witch Weekly'_s Most-Charming-Smile Award and resident amnesiac of the Janus Thickey Ward —takes colour very seriously.

"Sorry, dear, what was that?" the healer asks distractedly as she fusses with his collar.

"My robes are teal, not turquoise," he explains patiently. Fashion clearly isn't her forte.

"Right, of course. My mistake." She steps back, apparently satisfied with his appearance. "Are you looking forward to the celebrations?"

"Absolutely!" He gives her his award-winning smile. "I have a full stack of photographs signed and ready to go. It's my best joined-up writing; I used the golden ink Gladys Gudgeon sent me for my last birthday." He pats the stack of decoy photographs on his bedside table.

"That's nice, dear. I'm just going to see how Gabriel is getting along. Can you go down to the party by yourself?"

"Of course, I can." He rolls his eyes. "I can do _joined-up handwriting_. I'm perfectly capable of getting to a party by myself."

"If you're sure, dear."

Gilderoy sweeps from the ward, his robes flaring dramatically behind him. He remembers someone else's robes, black ones, doing the same thing a long time ago, but the memory is confused and indistinct.

Leaving the building is remarkably easy without his hospital robes to give him away. He takes the lift all the way to the ground floor, smiling at people as they get in and handing them each a signed photograph. They all smile back at him, but none of them makes eye contact. Gilderoy is used to this by now. Used to sinking feeling in his gut as people ignore him, pity him.

The lobby is crowded. Dots of colour mingle together; reds, yellows, blues, and greens swarm the room. But Gilderoy, in his very best teal, is the brightest of them all.

The doors open for him automatically, and clutching the small square of blue plastic safely tucked into his robes, Gilderoy steps onto the streets of Muggle London. He may not be used to travelling the Muggle way, but he's determined to get to somewhere he is appreciated. Somewhere people aren't afraid to look him in the eye.

* * *

Dudley Dursley is utterly fed up as he leaves work at the end of an exhausting day. Working for his father had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Vernon is a big believer in "keeping it in the family," and Dudley hadn't hesitated when he was offered the cushy position. And then Vernon had grown ill; gout inflamed his feet, and he had trouble walking. The doctor blamed it on too much rich food and not enough exercise. Vernon blamed it on Harry Potter, or rather, the stress of taking in "that Potter brat." And so, Vernon retired and Dudley suddenly had a new boss —a demanding boss, unused to granting anyone special treatment, never mind the son of his predecessor.

People shove into him as he walks to the pavement edge and dutifully waits for the light to turn green. The crowds of commuter-London are dreary shades of greys, blacks, and browns. Each pop of colour stands out vividly against the business backdrop. A young girl wearing a bright pink tutu skips merrily alongside her mother, a stressed looking woman with one hand on a pushchair and an iPhone glued to her ear. One gentleman is wearing a well-tailored crimson suit, the trousers hugging his legs and the jacket artfully displaying the vee of his torso. A flash of teal catches his eye, whipping into the Underground entrance across the street. At first, Dudley thinks it's a dress, but he quickly realises that the cut is all wrong. If he isn't very much mistaken, the disappearing teal hem belongs to a robe. A wizarding robe.

The light turns green and Dudley, along with what seems like half of London, rushes across the street and down the stairs. The same streak of teal vanishes around a corner, and this time Dudley is certain: they're definitely wizarding robes.

He speeds up and follows the teal flashes of fabric as a sailor might follow the call of a siren. He's almost running but he makes it onto the platform just as the train arrives. His teal-clad man is walking onto the train at the far-end. Dudley jogs along, weaving in and out of commuters, and slips through the doors moments before they start to beep and slide closed.

He leans forward as best he can in the crowded carriage, hands on his knees, and takes deep breaths. He makes a mental note to hit the gym more often. Once he's breathing normally again, he searches the carriage for the teal-clad man. He's not difficult to spot. Stood resplendent in his beautiful robes, the man has waves of golden hair and clear blue eyes. Delicate beadwork meanders along the collar and sleeves in beautiful swirling patterns that remind Dudley of a roiling sea. He's clasping a stack of papers under one arm and staring bemusedly at an envelope clutched in his other hand.

The tannoy announces their next stop and the train jolts to a halt. Not holding on to the safety railings, the teal-clad man loses his balance along with his grip on the papers. They flutter from his arms and scatter to the floor. The commuters surrounding the poor man simply tut and move away, but Dudley rushes to help him, bending to scoop up some of the papers. He knows that Vernon would be shocked and appalled by his behaviour, but Dudley isn't that person anymore. He's not certain he ever was. The stranger bends at the same time, and Dudley is treated to a close up of his eyes; the blue of his irises is pierced with shards of a brighter shade that precisely matches the beading on his robes.

"Let me help you with those," Dudley says and gathers several of the fallen papers. They're photographs. Moving photographs at that, each showing the grinning face of the man in front of him.

"Thank you so much." The man's voice is soft and warm. Dudley looks up after gathering the last of the photographs and is rewarded with a smile. A beautiful smile. His teeth are pristine and white. Creases fan out from the corners of his sparkling eyes and dimples dent his cheeks. Dudley can't help but smile back at him.

"I'm Gilderoy." He moves the photographs back under his arm and offers Dudley a hand to shake. "Gilderoy Lockhart." The name tickles Dudley's memory, but he can't place it.

"Dudley Dursley," he replies, taking the hand in his own. The skin is soft, the handshake firm.

"Do you think you could help me some more?" Gilderoy asks.

"Of course," Dudley says. He owes his life to wizard-kind, and he's suddenly confident that he would move heaven and earth to help this man if necessary.

"I'm on my way to visit a friend." He hands Dudley the envelope. "But I'm not sure I'm going the right way."

The creamy parchment reads: _Gladys Gudgeon, 32 Pembroke Way, Bournemouth, Dorset. _

And suddenly, his name drops into place. Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry mentioned him once or twice in passing over the last few years.

"I can help you get there," Dudley says with a smile.

"Oh, thank you so much."

Dudley can't look away from the dazzling smile he's bestowed.

* * *

It's a quarter to eight in the evening when the doorbell rings. Harry runs to silence it before it can wake Teddy. He opens the door and there, standing on his Grimmauld Place doorstep, is the most unlikely duo imaginable. Gilderoy Lockhart is looking like his old self in immaculate teal robes, not a golden hair out of place. Dudley, in his usual grey suit and run-of-the-mill tie, would have looked drab beside him if it wasn't for the bright flush of his cheeks and the bright grin plastered across his face.

"Hi, Harry," Dudley greets him. "I know you're not expecting me until Sunday, but I made a new friend on the Underground. I thought it best to bring him straight to you."

"Harry?" Gilderoy Lockhart asks. "_The _Harry Potter?"

"Err… right." Harry opens the door wider. "I guess you'd better come in then."


End file.
